It's a Wonderful Life, Sherlock Holmes
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: When Moriarty deals a bitter blow on Christmas Eve, Holmes sinks into serious depression. The Great Detective is about to see what the modern world would be like without him... Completed. Merry Christmas!
1. Failure

**Author's Note:**

Had this idea in my head for almost two months now—maybe I can actually get this all churned out before Christmas, in-between working on the advent calendar challenge for the Sherlockian fandom proper. (Check out _Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas_ on my profile!)

This is written in the Skyfire!sad/serious style, so you have been warned. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** All that belongs to me in this story are the backstories of various characters. The story concept itself is so obviously _not_ mine.

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><p><strong>==It's a Wonderful Life, Sherlock Holmes==<strong>

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><p><em>When Moriarty deals a bitter blow on Christmas Eve, Holmes sinks into serious depression. The Great Detective is about to see what the modern world would be like without him...<em>

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><p><strong>==Chapter 1: Failure==<strong>

Beyond the police cruiser, it was cold and snowy, but, inside, Beth Lestrade felt colder.

Moriarty was finally racking up a score for himself, and this latest victory was the worst. A computer cryptologist and his wife had died because of Moriarty—not that he'd killed them directly, but they had fled him in their own cruiser and had crashed. They were the first casualties in the longstanding war between Moriarty and New Scotland Yard, and Lestrade had the terrible feeling that they wouldn't be the last.

Holmes had not said a word since they'd left the crash site. He'd stayed motionless in the passenger seat, eyes staring straight ahead. If Lestrade didn't know better, she would have thought him catatonic. As it was, she knew he was taking these deaths harder than she was herself, because, as far as she pushed herself to avoid failure, he pushed himself further. If failure was an unknown word in her vocabulary, it was profanity to Sherlock Holmes. He had no reservations in sharing victory, but he had the self-destructive trait of taking sole, crushing responsibility for defeat.

Apparently, Moriarty understood this as well as Lestrade did. For as long as she lived, she didn't think she'd ever be able to forget the malice in his cruel blue eyes, in his sardonic voice, as he mocked Holmes. (_"How ironic—the hero who returns from death can't always stop others from dying."_) The Victorian detective simply stood there in silence, his gaze fixed firmly on the smoking wreckage. Lestrade didn't think Moriarty saw it—and thank heaven for small favors—but she would have sworn she saw a lone tear slip down Holmes's cheek.

Moriarty'd had his cruiser's guns trained on them, but, if Lestrade's ionizer remained silent, her voice did not. Unable to bear his taunts any longer, she'd shouted hoarsely at him, ordering him to stop, to shut up, to just _go_…

The loss was made all the bitterer when they learned later that the wife had been pregnant. Another memory Lestrade would carry to her grave: the way Holmes's face had twisted in pain upon hearing that.

Lestrade herself had wanted to break down right then and there. She was the oldest of her mother's seven children; the youngest had actually been born just a few months before Holmes had returned to life. If she was ever harsh with the Irregulars, it was because she felt an older sister's responsibility towards them. _And if any one of them ever gets hurt on a case, I'll probably bawl Holmes out so bad he won't speak to me for the next month_.

So now here they were, sitting in a humming police cruiser on the edge of Hyde's Park on Christmas Eve. What a way to spend the day.

"Okay," Lestrade said at last, quietly. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"I am quite obviously _not_," came the low, acerbic reply.

"I know, it was bad," she murmured. "But, zed, Holmes, you can't beat yourself up like this over it."

"Lestrade," he said in a tone of longsuffering, "you are not my psychiatrist."

"No, you're right. I'm your _supervisor_, and, as such, I _do_ have the right to talk with you about this whether you like it or not."

"Les—"

But she had gotten started, and, by golly, she was _not_ to be deterred. "Holmes, you're already letting this _eat you alive_. What happened tonight was _not your fault_. Quit trying to be God—you're _human_. You're _fallible_. You can't win every time, and, zed, you're _over fifty years older than me_—you should _know_ this by now."

He gave a cold, mirthless chuckle that sent chills down her spine. "I do. I just had to relearn it." There was a gleam in his grey eyes that Lestrade could only describe as _fey_. He turned to her, and she shivered. "Allow me to share with you the great secret of the universe," he hissed darkly. "Everyone dies."

His voice started to rise. "Everyone dies, so what does it really matter how many cases I solve, how many people I save? In the end, they'll all die, anyway. I can only delay the Grim Reaper; I can't stop him. So what's the point of my trying in the first place? What was the point of you bringing me back? It doesn't make a difference in the long run—_why did you bring me back?_" His voice had gone shrill, and his large eyes were wider than ever and wild.

Scared now, Lestrade reached over and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him forcefully. "Sherlock, stop it!" she all but screamed. "_Stop that now!_"

She saw reason return to the grey eyes, saw the aquiline features slacken with weariness as he looked down. _Is this what you looked like after experiencing the Devil's Foot?_ After a few moments, he murmured, "I'm sorry." He opened his door and stepped out.

"Wait, Sherlock!"

But he disappeared into the swirling snow.

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><p>It was 7 o'clock when Lestrade parked in front of 221B and trudged up the stairs, physically, mentally, and emotionally tired. She opened the door to the sitting room to find Deidre petting Tiger-lily, Wiggins practicing on his accordion, and Tennyson and Amanda duking it out on <em>Asteroid Racer<em>. She smiled briefly at the last sight—Amanda would have joined the Irregulars right after the whole vampire incident, but her parents grounded her royally. She had only joined at last just a couple of months ago.

Watson was setting a plate of Christmas cookies down on the coffee table as Lestrade entered, and he turned to greet her. "You're back! Where is Holmes?"

Deidre looked up, alert, though the others remained focused on their own doings.

Lestrade shut the door behind her, saying, "He's taking a walk right now." She flopped down onto the couch, grateful for the plush cushions.

"Ah, one of _those_ walks," Watson said in sympathetic understanding. Even after two and a half years, Lestrade did not cease to be amazed at Watson's unending capacity for empathy and compassion—a greater capacity than many humans she knew, she might add.

"What 'appened?" Deidre asked softly. "You look awful."

Lestrade shook her head. "Don't want to talk about it, Dee." _Don't want to spoil Christmas for you_.

Deidre considered this—Lestrade could _see_ that girl's mind working. Deidre Anderson was a prodigy and no mistake—she was very nearly finished with high school—secondary school—at the tender age of fourteen. Lestrade herself had graduated at the age of fifteen, able to do so through being home-schooled and the ability to read and write far quicker than the average student. She had no doubt Deidre would go far in life, and Holmes agreed.

"Somebody died, didn't they?" Deidre whispered at last.

Lestrade closed her eyes. "Yes, Dee—somebody died."

"So Mr. Holmes is taking it really hard."

Lestrade nodded, unable to speak past the rising lump in her throat. She felt 221B's feline resident hop up onto the couch and climb onto her torso; without opening her eyes, she stroked Tiger-lily's back and was rewarded with contented purring. _Cats have it so easy. They only have to worry about where their meals are coming from and where they'll sleep at night. It sounds crazy even to me, but I envy them that._

"I'm not an expert on God," Deidre said slowly, "but Mr. Holmes says that, when we hit rough times, we oughta pray."

Lestrade opened her eyes at that and found that she had to blink before she could see the teenager's concerned face clearly. "Dee, that sounds like a good idea."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I'll just say right now that this is going to get dark before it gets better. And I'm not even going to follow the movie as religiously for this story as I was trying to with _It's a Wonderful Life, Doctor_. We're dealing with the very serious premise of _What if Sherlock had not been brought into the 22__nd__ century to stop Moriarty?_ We all know what would happen, right? We at least have a good idea.

Well, you're going to see that first-hand with Sherlock, and it's not going to be pretty. Now, on that cheerful note…

_**Please review!**_


	2. Responsible

**Author's Note:**

Oh boy, Holmes!torture ahead—in a mental/emotional sense, that is…

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><p><strong>==Chapter 2: Responsible==<strong>

Holmes paused halfway up the staircase, hearing the Irregulars and Watson celebrating in the sitting room. _Lovely_. Bad enough that he felt as if he was drowning in the worst black mood he'd had since his resurrection—now the kids had to see him like this.

He so desperately wanted Watson to dress him down for his depression, but he knew that Watson would not. The compudroid just didn't have it in him to rebuke Holmes like that, and there Sherlock Holmes missed his _real_ Boswell. The original John Hamish Watson had never had a problem with fighting Holmes tooth and claw over any topic, be it depression, failure, cocaine…

_Beth is like that_. The heiress of Lestrade _and_ Watson, she was never afraid to call Holmes out on anything under the sun, as had been amply proven earlier that evening. Yet, as good a friend as she was, she could never replace John, couldn't even come close. She was her own person, and Holmes would not have her any other way. But, dear God, he missed John so terribly sometimes, _especially_ at Christmastime.

He entered the sitting room noiselessly. Wiggins was practicing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" on his accordion, Tennyson and Amanda were having yet another "epic" round on their gaming handhelds, Watson and Deidre were occupied with backgammon, and Lestrade was nowhere to be seen. He took a few steps further into the room, and the others looked up.

"Evenin', Mr. Holmes," Wiggins called over his playing.

Tennyson beeped a greeting—Holmes had to remember to discuss the vocorder with the lad's parents: Tennyson was thirteen and getting too old for those computer noises.

Amanda smiled and waved; Watson and Deidre watched him quietly. Lestrade had told those two, then. "Hello, everyone," Holmes returned, unable to keep a thread of weariness out of his voice as the weight of his nonstop thoughts threatened to drag him down and crush him. "Forgive me if I retire early tonight—I am really quite tired."

There was a chorus of understanding responses to which he paid no heed—except for Watson's "Of course, dear fellow," coupled with a look that clearly said they'd talk later—as he approached the couch. _Ah, as I thought_. There lay Lestrade, fast asleep and curled up with an equally-asleep Tiger-lily. Telltale tracks marred her otherwise-peaceful face and made his heart twist. He knew Beth had seen death before—many times, he believed—but she had never grown desensitized to it. _And I thank God for that. May she never get used to it_.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, reaching down to brush an errant strand of hair from her face. _My fault. I was blind; I couldn't see Moriarty's purpose until it was far too late, and now a young family has paid the ultimate price for my error. It is my burden, Elizabeth, not yours. Not yours_. "I'm sorry."

He straightened and turned away, heading for his bedroom.

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><p>He didn't undress, didn't crawl in under the bedclothes, simply cast himself onto the bed fully-dressed. Try as he might, he could not get the sight of the wreckage out of his head. The moments of the crash played and replayed in his mind's eye with horrible clarity. <em>What fool would want eidetic memory?<em> Mycroft had once said very bluntly that such an ability was much more a curse than a blessing. Sherlock very much believed him.

_The cruiser clipped the corner of a skyscraper and went down, Lestrade cried out as she sped after it, the cruiser hit the pavement and burst into flame… Their own cruiser landed and they leapt out, hurrying over to the flaming wreck._

_It was too late. No one could survive that._

_Then Moriarty's cruiser arrived…_

"Stop!" he gritted out, clutching his head in both hands. "Just _stop!_"

"_My dear Holmes, you survived the First World War, did you not? Surely you can survive this."_

No…

"_How ironic—the hero who returns from death can't always stop others from dying. What a pity."_

He released a hiccupping sob and stared up helplessly at the ceiling.

"_Allow me to share with you the great secret of the universe. Everyone dies."_

He felt every bit of his eighty-two years, felt so terribly old…

"_Everyone dies, so what does it really matter how many cases I solve, how many people I save? In the end, they'll all die, anyway. I can only delay the Grim Reaper; I can't stop him. So what's the point of my trying in the first place? What was the point of you bringing me back? It doesn't make a difference in the long run—_why did you bring me back?_"_

He gritted his teeth. In the end, everyone dies, and he was one of history's greatest jokes. A cruel, cruel joke, the kind that was used for satire rather than laughter.

_She shouldn't have brought you back,_ a dark voice hissed. He was well-acquainted with _that_ voice. _You should have stayed dead. There was no point to your resurrection. __**None**__._

He didn't know how long he lay there, staring at the ceiling, unable to so much as lift a finger as his mind tore itself apart and guilt devoured him. But he would always remember the creaking of the door as it cracked open, the silhouette that spoke his name and glided in and settled on his bed. "Beth," he whispered hoarsely.

"Shh." He felt limp and lifeless as she raised him and held him close as one would a frightened child. "Shh, go to sleep," she soothed. "Please go to sleep, Sherlock. You're all right. Just go to sleep."

His mind still did not abate its assault, but his body was too weary to care. He fell into blessed unconsciousness.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

This was a difficult chapter. Writing Holmes!torture and guilty!Holmes is nothing new, but writing him as being _in a black mood_… Wow, I'm not sure that ACD himself could have done justice to Holmes in that state, let alone little ole me. I think that those black moods had to be truly cruel to him to have him unable to move from the settee.

These first two chapters actually remind me of one of my recently-favorite songs, "We Are." _What about the world today? What about the place that we call home? We've never been so many, And we've never been So alone… You say we're not responsible, But we are, We are. You wash your hands, You come out clean, Fail to recognize the enemies within_…

I think poor Holmes would agree wholeheartedly with this song.

Next time, we get to the truly interesting part…

_**Please review!**_


	3. Alternative

**Author's Note:**

A big thanks to my reviewers! Glad my little offering isn't being completely ignored… Now, regarding the story itself: as I said before, things _will_ get worse before they get better, so…

WARNING: Some mature content ahead.

**==Chapter 3: Alternative==**

When he woke up, he was cold. More to the point, he was practically freezing.

Beth was gone, and—oh, dear Lord, his _room_. In the darkness, it looked as it had when he'd first moved in, devoid of all personal touches, the comfortable clutter he'd built up over the years absolutely absent. Burglary would have been the first idea to come to mind, but his quick mind prevented that notion from arising.

His mind noted the impressive layer of dust on the furniture, the dirty floor, the cobwebs swaying from the ceiling. It looked as though no one had lived here in a very long time.

The plight of James Morstan sprang to mind, but he needed more data before he'd subscribe to that Rip Van Winkle idea. _Very well, then_. He rose from bed and entered the sitting room. It looked much the same as the bedroom, devoid of life and devoid of personality, the only light being the golden glow of the streetlamp flooding the floor. There was no sign of Watson, Lestrade, or the kids.

"Holmes."

His heart leapt into his throat at the voice—one that he had not heard in over two years. He whirled around, and he would have sworn that his heart truly skip a beat. "_John_."

There he stood in the middle of the room, stance proud and erect, ginger blond hair flopping endearingly over his forehead, hazel eyes alert and intense.

John Hamish Watson.

Holmes took a tentative step forward, afraid that this was another dream—he'd dreamt of John before—and that his Boswell would vanish as soon as Holmes reached him. John did not. He watched Holmes with something akin to compassion and even sorrow.

"Watson," Holmes whispered. "You are real?"

John took a step back, his face twisting briefly. "Holmes, you asked Lestrade why she brought you back," he said calmly enough, but Holmes knew his Watson. He _saw_ his friend's heart breaking on the inside. "You believe that you should have stayed dead."

All the guilt flooded back, crushing and nearly choking him. "Shouldn't I have?" he said bitterly. "If everyone dies in the end, what is the use of attempting to save them?"

A fierce light sparked in Watson's eyes, turning them amber in the dim light. "You _know_ the answer to that, Sherlock Holmes," he said severely. "Shame on you for ignoring it."

"I am not—"

"Your greatest flaw was never your arrogance, Holmes, though God knows it led to your ultimate weakness."

Holmes sighed tiredly. "Emotion?" They both knew by now that Holmes was the complete opposite of a brain without a heart: he felt things very deeply. So deeply that he'd had to learn at a young age to suppress his emotions lest they damage him.

"Close." Watson met Holmes's gaze squarely, penetratingly. "Your greatest flaw, Holmes, your greatest weakness… is your inability to forgive yourself. You act as if, because you are so high above the rest of mankind intellectually, you ought therefore to be omniscient. You ought to be able to save everyone, and you can't live with yourself when you don't. Call it 'unintentional arrogance,' if you will."

"Watson, I—"

"No! You let me finish. Even after eighty years of life on this earth, Heaven, and returning to life _here_, you still seem to think you ought to be invincible. You still seem to think you're God, and, _Sherlock Holmes, you are __**not**__ God_."

Holmes could not remember the last time he'd been at a loss for words. Eventually, he moistened his dry mouth and murmured, "But they don't need me here. Not really."

The anger faded from Watson's eyes, leaving them brown and weary. "Oh, Holmes. Very well, then—would you like to see what the world would be like without you?"

Holmes smiled sadly. "I'm certain they'd get along just fine. Lestrade really is a capable detective, you know?"

Something spasmed across Watson's face. "Come with me."

"Let me get my Inverness… Oh." Watson was holding out the cloak and cap. Odd—he hadn't _seen_ the man move to get them… it was as if they'd appeared out of thin air…

The rest of the house appeared as lifeless and empty as the bedroom and sitting room, and Holmes pulled his Inverness tighter around him, chilled at the sight. "Watson, what has happened to this place?"

"You'll deduce it soon enough," Watson promised, stepping out into the frigid night.

Holmes suddenly felt afraid, and hung back in the doorway. "Watson…"

His friend's forehead furrowed in regret. "Holmes, you must do this."

A beat. He stepped out and shut the door behind him. "Where are we going?"

"Where would you go if you were simply stepping out for the enjoyment of it?"

Holmes shrugged. "Regent's Park?"

"Then let's head that way."

Something was subtly different about the city as they made their way to the park. It was nothing that even Holmes could put his metaphorical finger on, but it was there all the same, like the answer to a question that sits right on the edge of memory. They walked in silence, as they had sometimes in the past, in a drastically different era. Holmes noted that his friend did not limp, which was quite unlike his dreams.

As they approached the park, he heard an all-too-familiar sound: wild music and even wilder voices and laughter. But… such a thing on Christmas, in Regent's Park of all places… was unheard of.

And yet, the sight that met his astonished eyes was that of a wild festival. "Watson, what the devil!" He had to avert his gaze to avoid seeing things that should not have been seen outside a bedroom.

He met Watson's sympathetic gaze. "I know, old man," Watson said quietly. "I know."

Holmes was still in shock. "Even in this day and age, I've never seen such a thing in such an old and venerable part of the city! This is supposed to be a _civilized_ nation!"

"It only gets worse, I'm afraid." Watson began to walk away. "Come. There is something you must see."

Holmes trotted after him, following Watson into a more commercial part of town. He gaped at the profusion of brightly-lit advertisements showing off seductive women—far more than he recalled there _ever_ being in New London. Drunks stumbled their way along the sidewalks, and he saw many people smoking cigarettes. His eyes bulged at that. "Watson, smoking was prohibited nationwide _decades_ ago!"

"So were orgies," Watson retorted. "In here." He gestured to a blindingly-neon bar, the sort of seedy establishment Holmes only ever entered—and that, reluctantly—when on a case. _Most times, Lestrade won't even come with me_…

As he entered, his heart plummeted. Whatever Watson wanted him to see, it was bound to be ugly. This place looked to be more of a brothel than a bar. One bleached blonde approached him, her hips swaying extravagantly… all right, he wasn't blind, but three words sprang to mind: DO NOT WANT. He tried to keep his eyes on her heavily-painted face and away from the clothes that left little to the imagination. _Honestly, what is the point of wearing clothes at all if you're revealing that much of your body?_

"Hey there, handsome," she murmured, laying one well-manicured hand on his arm. "Come to have a good time?"

"I'm, ah, just looking around, thank you."

She seemed to enjoy his brief floundering for a foundation. "You'll come back," she smiled lazily, and she brushed her fingers across his cheek before sauntering off.

Dear heaven, he _despised_ women like that.

He turned and found Watson sending off his own seductress. The doctor sent him a look that said, _honestly,_ and Holmes had to grin ruefully. _Your fault,_ he mouthed, and Watson scowled. Holmes shook his head and turned to survey the large room. He didn't see anything or anyone actually worth seeing…

"Hey, get your hands off of her!"

He froze. He knew that voice.

"Let her go!"

He pushed through the crowd until he found his quarry: Wiggins throwing a punch at a man, who howled as blood from his nose splattered the nearby table. "Wiggins, no!" shrieked a familiar Cockney voice. It took Holmes five seconds to identify Deidre in her heavy makeup, bizarre hairdo, and revealing clothing. His heart twisted at the sight.

"You're gonna pay for that, boy!" the injured man roared.

"Make me!" Wiggins shouted back, fury blazing in his dark brown eyes.

"Wiggins, _stop!_" Deidre hissed, gripping his right arm tightly. "Just stop!"

"You're a _waitress_, Dee, not a… a…"

"Yes, I _am!_ So you get back to your bouncer job and you _leave me alone_."

"You heard the little lady," the man smirked around a bloody nose.

"What the devil is going on?" The manager finally waded in to the midst of the lurid drama. "Wiggins, get back to your post!"

"Sir, he was comin' on to her and she didn't—"

"Shut up and _go!_" Deidre exploded at the boy.

Wiggins looked as though someone had just stabbed him and twisted the knife in deeper. "Dee…"

"Wig," she said quietly, "just go." Her large grey eyes pleaded more eloquently than any words ever could.

Wiggins said nothing, just dipped his head and slipped back into the crowd. The manager turned to Deidre, beginning, "Anderson…"

"Won't 'appen again, sir," she said firmly. "And _he_—" jerk of her head at the offender—"was just leaving."

The man looked startled but swore and stumbled away, clutching his broken nose. The manager considered for a moment, nodded, and left—and with that, the crowd began to break up, returning to their activities. Except for Holmes, who stepped forward and tapped Deidre's shoulder lightly. The redhead whirled, a curse on her lips, but relaxed when she took in Holmes's non-threatening posture. "Yeah, mister?"

There wasn't a trace of recognition in her grey eyes. _She doesn't know me_. His heart twisted.

"Miss Anderson?"

"Deidre," she said tiredly. "You wanna order, or do you want a different service?" She gave a brave smile and placed her hand invitingly on her hip.

He felt his heart fracture right down the middle. "Aren't you too young for this?" he said gently.

She shook her head, smile fading, posture drooping. "Gotta make a livin' somehow, mister. M' aunt can't support me, an' m' dad threw me outta the 'ouse. This beats livin' in the gutter."

"Deidre, love, you're needed!" called a man's voice.

"Comin'!" she called back. "Look, I gotta go, Mr…"

"Holmes. Edward Holmes."

"Right." She nodded slowly. "See you around." She began to walk off, then stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Hey. Thanks for caring." And then she was gone.

Holmes felt Watson behind him, and rounded on him, feeling angrier than he'd felt in a long time. "What is going on, Watson?" he hissed. "Why are Deidre and Wiggins here, why didn't Deidre know me, and where is Tennyson?"

Watson stood his ground. "I told you already what you would see."

"I was never returned to life?"

"No, you weren't."

"Impossible—you can't change that."

"Not I, Holmes."

Holmes glared at his friend. "Where is Tennyson?" he repeated dangerously.

"I'll show you."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Okay, I'll bet you _weren't_ expecting Watson 1.0. To be honest, neither was I—I'd originally thought Holmes would be on his own for this little tour. But then the original John H. demanded he have a role in all this, and who was I to refuse him?

And, yes, this was _dark_. I love Deidre—she's one of my favorite characters—but I could just _see_ this happening to her in a dystopia.

As far as other elements are concerned, all will be explained in time. Please stick around—things _will_ get better, I promise!

_**Please review!**_


	4. Impact

**Author's Note:**

Two more chapters after this one! And I want to say thank you to everybody who's still reading this story, despite all the depression. I _promise_ you that this _will_ have a happy ending—good things come to those who wait!

**==Chapter 4: Impact==**

Holmes stared up at the office skyscraper complex, one of the most important in New London. "This is where Tennyson works?" he asked in surprise. Despite the lad's genius with computers, he had not expected this, given the fate of his companions.

"Level 58, Mycomp," Watson replied.

Mycomp was Britain's foremost developer in computer technology. Holmes blinked in surprise and said, "Lead the way, old man."

They found the boy in his own office cubicle, still using a hoverchair (smaller, more compact) but dressed as a businessman in miniature. Holmes found the sight rather endearing, especially when the boy's long blond bangs fell into his electric-blue eyes.

The peace was shattered all too soon. "'scuse me," a man muttered, shoving past the Victorians and entering the cubicle. "Well, kid, do you have that program finished yet?"

"Not yet," a metallic voice replied, shocking Holmes nearly out of his skin. The voice had come from the mute boy's hoverchair. "I still have a few—"

Holmes knew what was coming before it happened, saw it in the man's eyes, moved forward to stop him, heard Watson's murmured warning…

And flinched at the slap.

"What kind of idiot you take me for, kid?" the man shouted. "Christmas morning, and you're still working on the program that should have been finished a week ago!"

"The plans for it wouldn't work!" Tennyson protested. "I had to work an extra week to fix the—"

The next slap brought tears to the boy's bright blue eyes. Holmes had never seen Tennyson cry. Furious now, he tuned out the man's rant and reached forward to grab his wrist as he made to slap Tennyson again. Caught, the man whirled on Holmes, spitting out several curses before demanding to know who Holmes was and why he was there. "I know this boy," Holmes said coldly, the fearful surprise in his boy's wide eyes fueling him on. _And to blazes with paradoxes_. "If you touch him again, I will report you to the authorities for abuse to an underage employee. I'm certain the media will love to get their hands on a story like that."

"Where've _you_ been for the past few years, Io?" the man sneered, but with more bluster than bravery. "Fine, whatever."

Holmes let the wrist drop.

"You listen, though, kid. Finish this program by 8 am, or you're fired. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." The man glared at Holmes but slunk out of the cubicle.

Holmes turned to see Tennyson regarding him thoughtfully. "Are you an angel?" the boy said at last.

Holmes smiled sadly. "I only wish I were, so that I could protect you."

"I'll be okay."

"Does he hit you often?" Holmes asked, but he already knew the answer.

Tennyson shrugged. "Sometimes, but it's okay. Really. Could be worse."

Holmes recalled Deidre's plight and shivered. _Much worse_. He shook his head. "Take care of yourself, lad."

"I will." The computerized voice was toneless, but the pain and fear lurking just beneath the boy's Harrison Ford smirk fractured Holmes's heart further.

* * *

><p>"What of Amanda?" Holmes asked, subdued.<p>

Watson shook his head. "She was caught hacking into the Sussex records and was sent to a correctional facility."

Holmes nearly choked. "No…" _Not little Mandy_…

They were striding along the sidewalk once more, headed towards the riverfront. Watson stopped and gave Holmes a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, old man."

"Don't be!" Holmes rounded on Watson, grey eyes blazing. "You can't possibly be sorry, so kindly cease those sympathetic looks." He jabbed his index finger in Watson's broad chest. "This is all your fault. I don't know what you did when you came to me in 221B, but it's ruined the four children _I would give my life for_."

"It's ruined more than them, Holmes," Watson said sorrowfully, gesturing at the street ahead.

The Strand.

Holmes felt his jaw drop. Rising on either side of the road were buildings the likes of which he'd never seen before… conglomerations of modern and Victorian architecture. Advertisements showcased a culture that was abandoned two centuries ago. Christmas decorations were incredibly Victorian in style and detail.

He _knew_ who had brought about these changes, but he feared to voice it.

As they stepped out onto the Strand, Holmes caught sight of a News-on-Demand monitor and stopped. _"…news, Potentate Moriarty continues his campaign for the revival of British culture."_ The top-right corner of the screen bore a photo of Moriarty, but it was so unlike the "mug shot" stored in NSY's database. _This_ was Moriarty at his finest, the suave, charismatic gentleman bearing an undercurrent of steel in his Prussian blue eyes.

Holmes turned away. "So," he said quietly, eyes roaming the street, seeking a distraction. "Lestrade failed."

"New Scotland Yard's computer core was drained and then destroyed," Watson said quietly, "and Moriarty followed through on his lunar weapons strategy."

Holmes froze. That man huddled in the shadows of the alley nearby. _That can't be_… He took a few steps forward, ignoring Watson's call, and stopped. He knew the ashen complexion, the lanky blond hair, the face deformed of a cause that he had never deduced or discovered.

_Fenwick_.

The man was shivering and coughing inside a thin jacket—not his characteristic trench coat—and rubbing his arms to warm himself. Holmes wondered how long the man had been out in the cold like this, and how much longer he'd last. Considering the wracking cough plaguing Fenwick, Holmes did not give him good odds of survival.

_So this is how you rewarded the man who gave you life, Moriarty_.

Holmes had never liked Fenwick, of course, but it was Beth who'd always had it out for the Frenchman. Those two just rubbed each other entirely the wrong way, and they _loved_ to insult each other every chance they got. Holmes typically concentrated on Moriarty, and, if he thought about Fenwick at all, it was usually to be sardonically amused at the man's incompetence in field work. Now, however…

Now, he saw a shell of a man, once a brilliant geneticist no matter his moral corruption… And Sherlock Holmes could only pity the wretch. He thought of _The Lord of the Rings_, of Frodo's first meeting with Gollum, and he understood it. _Now that I see him, I pity him_.

"Do you see now?" Watson asked as Holmes turned away. "Your life has affected so many others in ways not even you would ever have imagined." His tone grew stern, the voice of a commanding officer rebuking a soldier who should know better. "You are a focal point of history, Sherlock Holmes—you were before and you are now again. The lives you have touched number in the billions between your first lifetime and this one."

Holmes stepped back, thoughts and memories whirling a maelstrom in his head and him unable to grasp at a single one.

"You weren't _brought_ back—you were _sent_ back. You exist in this century because you are needed here, because what you do in _this_ life makes an impact upon eternity. You have a _family_ here, a family that depends on you and loves you." Watson's voice, expression… his entire being radiated earnestness. "Don't you see, Holmes? You've had a truly wonderful life—and you honestly want to abandon it? Abandon _them_?"

_"Holmes, you're already letting this _eat you alive_. What happened tonight was _not your fault_. Quit trying to be God—you're _human_. You're _fallible_. You can't win every time, and, zed, you're _over fifty years older than me_—you should _know_ this by now."_

"Beth," Holmes whispered. He looked up at his old friend like a little lost puppy. "John, where is Lestrade? She's working to overthrow Moriarty, isn't she? Either from the inside or as an all-out rebel, but she at least cannot be completely ruined."

Watson remained silent, his dark eyes holding Holmes's light ones.

"Watson? Where is Lestrade?"

Still no answer.

_Oh. No. Not that. Please not that._ Holmes stopped and looked his friend squarely in the eye. "Watson. Where. Is. Lestrade."

Watson looked away. "You know where to find her."

A lesser man would have taken him to mean New Scotland Yard. Holmes knew otherwise. He broke into a run. He ignored the mishmash of culture around him, ignored the immorality, ignored all of it. One thought only whirred through his brain; one thought only mattered. _Please be wrong. Please be wrong. Please be wrong_…

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Poor Holmes. His heart is breaking…

And poor Fenwick. One might wonder why Moriarty didn't simply kill Fenwick outright if he wanted to get rid of him—the simple fact is that he didn't _have_ to. Fenwick could do nothing against Moriarty. That was a sad bit to write, and it _is_ like feeling pity for Gollum.

Next up, the climax of Holmes's heartbreak, and the beginning of the end! Stay tuned!

_**And please review!**_


	5. Alone

**Author's Note:**

Merry Christmas Eve! One more chapter to go!

**==Chapter 5: Alone==**

The cemetery was blessedly quiet. He vaulted over the low brick wall and ran to the section he'd visited twice before with his supervising officer. Time slowed as he took in the grave that he hadn't seen before, slowed 'til he was wading through it like quicksand, sucking at him and imprisoning him. But he reached the grave marker.

Took in the name and the dates.

Collapsed to his knees in the snow, unable to stand.

_Elizabeth Anne Lestrade_

_April 2nd, 2078—July 4th, 2103_

_Patriot_

His vision went blurry as he shoved one hand into his mouth, reached out with the other to trace the inscription. Just one word for an epitaph. _Patriot_. So very apt. A lump formed in his throat and rose, and, when he coughed, the tears fell. He clutched at the tombstone for support as he released a storm of grief he had not thought he would have to endure again.

He thought of her fierceness, her independence, her loyalty, her devil-may-care smile, her laugh, her bright blue eyes…

He would never see them again. They were dead.

_She_ was dead.

She was dead, and he had never told her just what she meant to him. Now he would never have that chance.

"Beth, I'm sorry," he choked out, _tasting_ the inadequacy of the words as they left his mouth. "I'm so sorry. I love you. Beth, I _loved_ you."

Because he hadn't been here to stop Moriarty, she had died trying to stop him herself. He knew it. That was why there was one word only inscribed below the dates of birth and death. On America's Independence Day, she had died a patriot, fighting for independence in a world fallen under a tyrant's reign.

_No!_

He surged to his feet. _This is a dream, is it not?_ Only a vision of what _might_ have been, like Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Future. With that in mind, he broke into a run once more, desperation fueling him as he returned home.

221B looked dark and old as he approached. The door was unlocked, and he burst inside. "Lestrade!" He rushed up the stairs. "Wiggins! Deidre, Tennyson, Amanda! Watson!" He ran from room to room, too frantic to think clearly. "Wiggins, Deidre, Tennyson, Amanda! Watson! Lestrade! Beth! _Elizabeth!_"

Running half-blind through the deserted house, he did not see the compudroid until he had smacked right into him. Unlike Dr. Culverton Smith, Holmes managed to rebound. "Watson?"

The robot seemed to be standard compudroid issue, and it answered tonelessly. "Citizen, do you require assistance?"

Holmes stepped away from the robot, hanging his head. "No." Quieter: "No, I don't."

"Please vacate these abandoned premises immediately."

"Very well." Holmes began to walk past the 'bot but froze when he took in an engraving on the machine's right arm plate.

The name WATSON stared back at him, and he did a double take at the robot, searching for some sign of recognition. "Watson! You're Watson, the compudroid assigned to Inspector B. Lestrade of New Scotland Yard!"

"Negative, citizen. I am assigned to Inspector M. Gregson of New Scotland Yard; my designation is 4260-A134."

As with Deidre and Tennyson, there was no spark of recognition whatsoever. The robot—the _man_—Holmes had shared rooms, cases, joys, and fears with for the past two and a half years… didn't… know… him. Holmes gave him—it—one brief look of heartbreak before turning to leave.

He returned to the cold, not caring where his weary feet took him. John was no longer with him, and there was not a soul in this world that knew him. Neither the Irregulars nor Watson knew him, and Beth was dead, perhaps even mercifully so. Just thinking about the tempestuous poster-child of New Scotland Yard made him want to break down.

_When the dark wood fell before me_

_And all the paths were overgrown_

_When the priests of pride say there is no other way_

_I tilled the sorrows of stone_

Beth had loved that song, an "oldie" from the 1990s by one of her favorite Celtic singers.

_I did not believe because I could not see_

_Though you came to me in the night_

_When the dawn seemed forever lost_

_You showed me your love in the light of the stars_

She'd once told him of a music video about Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes, using that song.

_Cast your eyes on the ocean_

_Cast your soul to the sea_

_When the dark night seems endless_

_Please remember me_

She'd said that it made her cry every time she watched it, and there was no zedding way she was showing it to him.

_Then the mountain rose before me_

_By the deep well of desire_

_From the fountain of forgiveness_

_Beyond the ice and the fire_

So he'd found it online and watched it on his own.

_Cast your eyes on the ocean_

_Cast your soul to the sea_

_When the dark night seems endless_

_Please remember me_

It had brought tears to his eyes, recalling to memory both the tragic story of Jeremy Brett's manic depression and his own final year on earth.

_Though we share this humble path, alone_

_How fragile is the heart_

_Oh give these clay feet wings to fly_

_To touch the face of the stars_

It had made him think of John, _his_ John, the man who'd lived with him for nearly two decades on Baker Street.

_Breathe life into this feeble heart_

_Lift this mortal veil of fear_

_Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears_

_We'll rise above these earthly cares_

Now it made him think of Beth.

_Cast your eyes on the ocean_

_Cast your soul to the sea_

_When the dark night seems endless_

_Please remember me_

_Please remember me _

His feeble barriers broke beneath the strain, and he let his grief wash over him as he collapsed against the railing of a bridge crossing the Thames. "John," he choked out. "John, you have to help me, please. I need you. I want to go back. Please take me back.

"I want to live again," he sobbed. "I want to live again. Please, God, let me live again. _Please_. Just let me live again. I want to live again."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

"Dante's Prayer," the song quoted above, is the property of Loreena McKennit. I thought it very appropriate. The music video in question does exist; just look up "Jeremy Brett Please Remember Me" on YouTube. And have Kleenex nearby.

Next up, the finale and Holmes's happy ending! Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	6. Morning

**Author's Note:**

Thank you to everyone who reviewed and favorited! Your support has meant a lot, especially as I was afraid nobody would even read this story. Thank you so much for sticking with me on this journey, and here at last is the grand finale you've been waiting for! (My apologies for the lateness—I didn't get a chance to upload before church, and then I was there half the day...)

**==Chapter 6: Morning==**

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wake _up_! C'mon—c'mon, wake up, please!" He struggled in her grip as she shook his shoulders desperately. "_Sherlock Holmes!_"

The grey eyes flew wide open, and another memory she would carry to her grave was the terrible mixture of horror and wild relief in his face. "_Beth!_"

"Oh, _zed_, Holmes, you scared me so badly!" she cried as she pulled him into a tight embrace. He seemed to melt in her hold, and they were both shaking. "That was some nightmare, and when you wouldn't wake up…"

He pulled away to face her, eyes raking over her as if seeing her for the first time in a long time. Whatever he'd dreamt had shaken him further than she'd ever seen before. "But it wasn't a nightmare," he murmured. "It was real—as real as you are now, I swear. I…" He covered his mouth, his eyes widening again. "You're real," he said around his hand. "You're not… oh, dear God." He fell back upon the mattress, shaking with suppressed sobs.

"I'm not… what… Sherlock, stop, stop, stop! Stop it unless you want to give me a heart-attack for scaring me like this!"

He nodded, took a deep breath, held it, expelled it slowly. "My apologies," he breathed. "I… good _heavens_, my room." His eyes lit with a child's delight. "It's my room again!" He sprang off the bed, alarming her once more as he rushed to the door and threw it open. "And the sitting room! Ha-ha! Beth, merry Christmas!"

"Um, merry Christmas to you, too," she said slowly as he tore off in search of who-knew-what. "Wow, that dream must've really done a number on him." She followed at a more sedate pace, watching him run all over the place.

"John! John! John? John!"

"Holmes…"

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, great, you woke up the kids." She threw up her hands as Sherlock Holmes turned to find the four Irregulars crowded in the doorway.

"Wiggins!" Holmes cried happily. "Deidre, Tennyson, Amanda!" To everyone's shock, he threw his arms around each of them, one after another. "Ah, you have no idea what a sight for sore eyes you are!"

Tennyson beeped out something that Lestrade figured was akin to _what the zed?_ Wiggins laughed self-consciously, rubbing the back of his neck; Amanda smiled uncertainly and waved. Deidre put her hands on her hips. "Mr. 'Olmes, you look awful," she said frankly. "What 'appened to you?"

Lestrade saw Holmes's grey eyes fill with pain before he pulled Deidre close again and buried his face in her red hair. "Never you mind," he murmured. "I'm all right now. We all are all right, and we're together—that's all that matters now."

"Why don't you kids go downstairs and wake up Watson?" Lestrade suggested. "Go help him with breakfast."

With a muttered chorus of reluctant assent, the kids filed back out into the hall. They were smart—_at least, they know when they're being sent away so that their "parents" can talk_.

She returned her attention to Holmes, who stared after the departed Irregulars, clearly lost in his own world. "Holmes?"

"Hmm?" He blinked and came back to himself. "What, Lestrade?"

"Why were you calling for Dr. Watson?"

He smiled sadly. "Never let Moriarty call you unperceptive, my dear." He took another deep breath. "John was here. Not our beloved compudroid, but the _real_ John H. Watson. He stood right here in the middle of _this_ room, and… 'pon my word, the things he showed me."

"Sherlock," she said carefully, taking a step forward, "it was just a dream."

He stepped back, shaking his head, his expression as earnest as she'd ever seen it. "No. No, it was _real_, Beth, I swear to you."

"All right, all right, don't get worked up again!" she said quickly, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No, I don… No, wait." He looked at her strangely. "I do."

She flopped down onto the couch, spreading her hands invitingly. "I'm all ears."

He chuckled half-heartedly and sat beside her. "I woke up, and the house was… barren, lifeless. I came out into the sitting room, and there was John, just standing there."

She saw a shadow settle over his face. "We quarreled about whether or not I should have been returned to life. He asked me if I'd like to see what the world would be like without me in it." Pain contorted his strong features. "Oh, Beth, it was all wrong."

"Moriarty took over, huh?" she said sympathetically, already knowing the answer.

He closed his eyes. "But there was so much more. I even saw Fenwick. He'd been cast aside into the gutter—literally. He… I believe he was dying."

Lestrade shivered—she couldn't help it, even if the creep irritated the living daylights out of her.

"And New London… oh, it was _terrible_, Beth. There was no morality—_none_—and yet, Moriarty was reviving Victorian culture at the heart of the city. It was as if, as long as the people went along with his cultural revival, he allowed them all the moral leeway they wanted."

"Ouch," Lestrade winced. "What about us—me, Watson, the kids?"

His face twisted further as he bowed his head. "Wiggins was a bouncer at a bar—I think to keep an eye on Deidre, who was working there as a waitress… among other things…"

Lestrade felt the color drain from her face as she took his implication. "Zed," she whispered.

"Indeed. Tennyson was an abused employee of Mycomp; Amanda was in a correctional facility for her hacking. Watson…" Holmes lifted his head, met her eyes… and the agony in his own was enough to drown a person. "Watson didn't know me. He was just a patrol 'bot in the service of the Yard—he didn't know me."

She hung back slightly, almost afraid to ask. "And… me?"

He merely looked at her, his eyes seeming to go _right through her_…

"Sherlock," she said, grasping his right hand in both of her own and gripping it firmly. She studied his agonized features, his tense posture… "I died," she whispered. "Didn't I."

His head dropped again. "Yes," he whispered hoarsely. "You did. You died on the Fourth of July, two years ago."

She heaved a quiet sigh. _No wonder he was so shaken when I woke him up_… "It's okay, Sherlock; it's okay." She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm still alive—we all are, and we're okay, just like you told the kids."

He looked up then, and his eyes were as haunted and empty as they'd been the night before. "But you would not have been if—Elizabeth, I give you my word that I shall be terribly careful of my own safety from now on. As long as Moriarty remains alive and free, there is no guarantee that what I saw will _not_ come true—it would seem that I am the dam holding back the flood."

She hung her head. "Gooolly, you just go from one extreme to another." She looked up and met his gaze squarely. "Look, Sherlock, you can't live your life in constant paranoia—that's a good way to stress yourself out to an early grave." He winced, but she ignored it. "Whatever Moriarty throws at us, we're going to take it as it comes, one day at a time."

He looked away.

"What? What is it?"

He slid his free hand over his face. "I can't get what I saw out of my head," he murmured. "What I felt. Beth, I was alone. For the first time since my return to life, I was completely and utterly _alone_. Even John deserted me before the end. The children were ruined, Watson was soulless, and you were…" He choked out a sob and clamped his hand over his mouth.

She shifted forward and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his thin but strong shoulder. She felt him bury his face in her hair as he circled his own arms around her, clinging to her like a drowning man. Every hitch of his breath sent a knife stabbing through her heart.

This was her hero, the man she'd looked up to her entire life. Now, he was hurting deeply, and she had no idea how to fix it.

"I believed I'd lost you," he gasped out. "I never told you how much you mean to me, and I thought I'd never have the chance to do so."

Her heart twisted—she knew that feeling; she knew it all too well. "Sherlock, I know that we're good friends." Zed, now _she_ was crying. What a Christmas. "That's all I need."

"But that's not all that _I_ need." He pulled away to look her in the eye. "Because, Beth, I love you. I love you as truly as—" he blushed; he actually _blushed_—"if I may be forgiven for quoting Watson, as truly as ever a man loved a woman."

_Brain just shut down. Now rebooting_. She blinked at the moisture in her eyes and lifted a hand to wipe it away. "Sherlock… do you really mean that?"

He merely watched her steadily, his grey eyes deep with honesty and affection. "I do."

"I… wow." She looked down, then just as quickly looked back up and smiled. "You… wow. Sherlock… I don't know what to say."

He held up a hand. "You don't have to say anything." Disappointment clouded his features. "Really, you don—"

He was cut off by her lips covering his. One moment was apparently all he needed to recover from the surprise, because he swiftly returned the kiss, his hand coming down to settle in the small of her back. When Beth pulled away, she grinned at him. "That means I love you, too, by the way."

"I deduced that," he breathed. He kissed her again.

Five seconds later, they heard a shout of "Oh, my _gosh!_" and broke off to find Amanda standing in the doorway, stunned, and an equally shocked Deidre, Tennyson, and… yep, there was Wiggins behind Mandy. Beth was sure Sherlock's face must've been as red as hers felt.

"I say, what is going on?" came a familiar computerized voice. Watson appeared, squeezing in-between Wiggins and Deidre. "Holmes?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and called, "Let the man through, children."

The Irregulars parted, and Watson bustled into the room with a tray of chocolate-chip pancakes. "Holmes, Lestrade, merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, Watson!" Lestrade grinned.

"Merry Christmas, my dear fellow," Holmes said warmly, rising to embrace his robotic partner.

"Oh my." The poor compudroid looked perplexed at Holmes's uncharacteristic display of affection. "Holmes, are you feeling well?"

"After liplockin' with Inspector Lestrade, I should jolly well think so!" Deidre chimed.

Both detectives blushed once more, and Beth made a mental note to kill that girl. Especially when Watson's amber eyes went wide—okay, honestly, that elastomask was just a bit too detailed sometimes. "Lip… lock?"

Beth could have crawled underneath the couch and died—then inspiration hit. "Mistletoe," she said simply.

"I didn't see any!" Amanda protested.

Tennyson beeped something, and Wiggins said, "Yeah, there's no mistletoe around. So why—"

"All right, everyone out," Watson ordered in his best crowd-control voice.

"No, wait, Watson." Holmes held up a hand, and the Irregulars halted. "What say we attack the pile of gifts beneath the tree, eh?"

Tennyson beeped again.

"We'll discuss that later," Holmes said, his tone brooking no argument.

"Holmes…?" Watson cocked a curious eyebrow at his friend as the kids proceeded to "attack" the presents.

"Later, Watson." Sherlock's hand ended up finding Beth's, and their fingers meshed together. He barked a short laugh. "It's a long story."

Watson's other eyebrow joined its counterpart. "I see."

"Hey, Mr. Holmes," Wiggins called from the tree. "Package for you, but no 'from' name." He padded over and handed his employer the gift.

Sherlock frowned. "Was this from either of you?" he asked Beth and Watson, who both shook their heads. "I can't imagine…" He tore open the wrapping and held up a one-volume _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_.

Beth whistled. "Beautiful binding."

"Quite…" Sherlock opened the book and froze at the front page. He looked up with a fond smile and allowed Beth to read the dedication:

_Holmes,_

_Remember: no man is a failure who has friends._

_Lovingly,_

_Your Boswell_

"Wow," she breathed. _Whatever Holmes saw was somehow_ _**real**_.

"No man is a failure who…" Sherlock sprang from the couch, eyes alight, and tore through the nearest bookcase. He grabbed one book and flipped it open to the end. Beth could see his eyes flitting over the pages, and then he looked up with a brilliant smile. He flopped back down on the couch and handed her the book. "Lestrade, look."

"Oh, man," she whispered. The novelization of one of her favorite Christmas flicks—_It's a Wonderful Life_. She flipped back through the book, recalling points to the story that paralleled what Sherlock had experienced.

She heard him whisper, "Thank you, John," and looked up. He grinned at her, and she shook her head. _I can't believe this_. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and said, "Merry Christmas, Beth. Merry Christmas, Watson."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," Beth smiled. "Merry Christmas, Deidre."

"Merry Christmas, Holmes," Watson beamed. "Merry Christmas, Wiggins."

"Merry Christmas, everybody!" the kids chorused, then laughed.

Wiggins snapped his fingers. "I never got to play my accordion for all of us! Can I do that now, Mr. Holmes?"

"Certainly."

"Oh, goodie!" Amanda grinned, scooting closer to Deidre.

Holmes rose to pick up his syntholin and returned to the couch, preparing to follow the boy's lead. Wiggins shot him a self-conscious grin and began.

_Hark! the herald angels sing  
>Glory to the new-born King!<br>Peace on earth and mercy mild,  
>God and sinners reconciled!<br>Joyful, all ye nations, rise,  
>Join the triumph of the skies;<br>With th' angelic host proclaim  
>Christ is born in Bethlehem!<br>Hark! the herald angels sing  
>Glory to the new-born King! <em>

xxx

_Christ, by highest heaven adored;  
>Christ, the everlasting Lord;<br>Late in time behold Him come,  
>Offspring of the Virgin's womb.<br>Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;  
>Hail the incarnate Deity,<br>Pleased as man with men to dwell;  
>Jesus, our Emmanuel!<em>

_Hark! the herald angels sing  
>Glory to the new-born King! <em>

xxx

_Hail, the heaven-born Prince of Peace;  
>Hail, the Sun of Righteousness;<em>

_Light and life to all He brings,  
>Risen with healing in His wings,<br>Mild He lays His glory by,  
>Born that man no more may die,<br>Born to raise the sons of earth,  
>Born to give them second birth!<br>Hark! the herald angels sing  
>Glory to the new-born King!<em>

* * *

><p><em>What had begun as the worst Christmas I'd ever known turned into one of the best Christmases of my life. In the difficult days to come, it gave us something to look back on and remember with fondness. It allowed us to hope for the best.<em>

_John was right: I was needed. Never did that become clearer than during the events that followed. But even in the darkest hours, I knew that he was right: I did have a wonderful life._

* * *

><p><em><strong>~Fin~<strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

The original conversation between Holmes and Lestrade was much different. But that was me acting out both their parts, and with no access to my laptop. So the original scene was indeed better, but I didn't even try to reconstruct it—I simply followed the new flow in my head. Sadly, one of the lines that was lost was one that I really liked, from Lestrade: "Holmes, you're talking to the woman who had you brought back from the dead. I can believe a lot these days."

*sigh* Oh, well.

So, I hope you enjoyed the long and pretty-much happy ending! Yes, there's the little appendix by Holmes at the end, and that's hinting at an epic that I'll type out someday when I have the time and the story better figured-out. But for now, suffice to say that this story does actually exist in the same "universe" as the _Eyes and Hearts_ collection.

I hope you enjoyed this journey with Sherlock Holmes, and I pray that God blesses you this day with the best Christmas you've ever had. Thank you all, and Merry Christmas!


End file.
